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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26724610">Azula, Alone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Woodville/pseuds/Elizabeth_Woodville'>Elizabeth_Woodville</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Avatar: The Last Airbender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Azula's Character Arc, Brace yourselves for some Shakespeare references cleverly disguised to fit in-universe, Character Study, It's not clever that's a straight up lie, Macbeth just really fuckin fits Azula's aesthetic okay?, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Not My Best So I'll Probably Just Keep Revising Until This Sucks Less, Wrote this over three days on a dare, oh well, or something like that?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:00:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,964</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26724610</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Woodville/pseuds/Elizabeth_Woodville</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Azula always lies, she repeats, turning the words over in her head. <br/>The truth burns, turning to ash in her mouth.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Azula, Alone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>"It was a pleasure to burn..."  - Ray Bradbury, <em> Fahrenheit 451 </em></p><p>~~~</p><p><em> Fire is a thing of exquisite beauty, </em> Mother says. <em> It is light. It is life.  </em></p><p><em> It is the hand of the divine, </em> her tutor says. <em> Fire gives and fire takes, and it does so freely. </em></p><p><em> Positively radiant, </em>Ty Lee whispers, awed, when Azula first shows her a palm of swirling flame. </p><p><em> Perfect, Azula, </em> Father says. <em> You show great promise.  </em></p><p>
  <em> She bows, beaming.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Grandfather smiles fondly at his namesake.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You are as the lightning, my child. For you too shall illuminate the skies.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Azula tilts her head, perplexed. Is not lightning too brief? Too sudden? It fades ere one can truly behold the light.</em>
</p><p>Exquisite. </p><p>Radiant.</p><p>Perfect. </p><p>Divine.</p><p><em>No, father,</em> she whispers.<em> Fire is power. It is raw power, energy, in its purest form.</em> <em>I shall be the sun. </em></p><p>Power.</p><p>~~~</p><p>She can see the Agni Kai in her mind’s eye. </p><p>The torchlit chamber, the dangerous glint in her father’s eyes. Zuko’s face, blanching when he realized the old general was nowhere to be found. The roar of the crowd and the sickening wave of adrenaline coursing like lightning, like the flames in Father’s hand— </p><p>She imagines it’s her this time, clawing the skin off of her brother’s face. Nails sinking into his cheek. Skin like the flesh of an overripened peach. So easy to tear. </p><p>It was so easy to burn. To destroy.</p><p>That sickeningly sweet smell of charred flesh, the sizzling sound that accompanied the dissolution of muscle. Like pork fat in a frying pan, she thought. </p><p>And the screams… the unholy cries are the one thing she’ll never forget. She can hear them still, howling like the wind. </p><p>It should frighten her, the joy those cries elicit. She should feel something, hearing them, seeing what she saw. </p><p>She feels nothing at all. </p><p>(That’s what really frightens her: the absence of feeling. She’ll never say it aloud. But it terrifies her.)</p><p>Zuko is still screaming in her ears.</p><p>Which doesn’t make sense. </p><p>Zuko doesn’t scream this long. Zuko screams, yes. But he soon collapses, crumpling, his one eye rolling up into his skull, one half of his face smoking and sizzling. The screaming stops, an afterbirth of silence taking its place as the Nation pauses to regard its prodigal princeling: a bloody, broken heap of child on the tile floor.</p><p>Father stands triumphant, looking like a beast standing over its kill. Smug. </p><p>He lifts his robes, carefully manoeuvring the hem over his battered heir and steps over the unconscious boy, departing the arena without a word.</p><p>Zuko won’t stop screaming this time.</p><p>It’s never words. Only anguish. Agony. </p><p>She caused him to scream like that, once.</p><p>But now he won’t stop. </p><p>He screams through the night. </p><p>She wants to grab him, shake him until he stops— </p><p>She looks and he’s not there.</p><p>She hears him, but he remains just out of sight. Always hiding, the coward— </p><p><em> You’re supposed to pass out, </em> she wants to yell. <em> You should’ve stopped by now. Why haven’t you stopped?  </em></p><p>It’s not until a gaggle of guards rush in  — pulling her arms tight around her, wrapping her in the cloth-board, sticking a needle into her neck—  that she realizes.</p><p>The screams were— </p><p>Zuko wasn’t— </p><p>The man in question appears above her, just as she’s about to close her eyes.</p><p><em> Do you understand now, Azula? </em>he asks, regarding her curiously.</p><p>Burn in hell, she spits.</p><p><em> The truth is a bitter herb, </em> he says. <em> Not that you’d know. Can you even tell the difference anymore? </em></p><p>Shut up.</p><p><em> Azula always lies, </em> he replies, mocking. <em> Even to herself.  </em></p><p>~~~</p><p>Azula always lies, she repeats, turning the words over in her head. </p><p>The truth burns, turning to ash in her mouth.</p><p>~~~</p><p>The worst is when Zuko appears.</p><p>She hears him calling her as she wakes. </p><p>“Azula!”</p><p>
  <em> Shut up.  </em>
</p><p>“Azula, come on!”</p><p>“Come play, Azula!”</p><p>“Let’s go to the courtyard!”</p><p>She can see him this time, in her mind’s eye, running up the hills behind the palace. The trees are just beginning to blossom. </p><p>It’s early morn, a cool spring morning on the mountainside. </p><p>“Come on,” he pleads. </p><p>“You’re right. Let’s do our katas,” she sneers. “You could use some practice.”</p><p>Zuko, for once, seems unfazed.</p><p>“Come with me, Azula,” he said calmly. </p><p>He was trembling slightly, not with rage, but it didn’t seem to be fear either. </p><p>No, it had to be fear. What other reaction could her presence garner if not fear?</p><p>“I don’t want to go with you, <em> Zuzu, </em>” she spat. “I’m tired of looking at the turtleducks. I hate them. I hate them and I hate you and if I ever see them again, I swear I’ll burn them. I’ll burn them to crisps and give them little scars to match yours!”</p><p>Zuko remained silent. His face was pale. </p><p>“Come home, Azula,” he said again. “Please, just...”</p><p>
  <em> You will remain here in the Fire Nation. </em>
</p><p>“You can’t do this,” she snarled. “I told you, it was my idea!I should be there! Don’t I deserve it? Don’t I? Don’t I deserve to be there too?”</p><p>
  <em> Stay here. Guard the homeland. You are the Firelord.  </em>
</p><p>“What—?”</p><p>
  <em> Hail Firelord Azula. </em>
</p><p>“You’d leave me here? Alone?” </p><p>
  <em> Hail. </em>
</p><p>“You’re going to abandon me? After all I’ve done for you, for us, for our country?”</p><p>
  <em> Hail. </em>
</p><p>“You would throw me away?”</p><p>
  <em> Hail.  </em>
</p><p> How— how dare you! How dare you treat me like him!”</p><p>Father looks perplexed. “... I— l-like who?”</p><p>“Like Zuko!” she seethed. “I’m better than he’s ever been, you’ve said it yourself! I deserve this!” </p><p>
  <em> Hail Firelord Azula, hail she who shalt reign supreme! Hail, she who will be queen hereafter!  </em>
</p><p>“I deserve to watch the world burn,” she hissed. “But you’d have me relegated to guard duty?” </p><p>“Azula!”</p><p>“You can’t do this, Father!” she screams. </p><p>Father’s face pales. He almost looks sick. </p><p>“Azula, I’m not him, please—”</p><p>“Leave!” She screeched. “I can’t believe you! You— you promised! And you betray me?! Dishonor me? Throw me aside?”</p><p>Several women rush to her sides, Father stands numbly in the doorway as they tighten her restraints. A faint prick on her arm.</p><p>“Stop it! Father, please, help me— unhand me, you— Father! Father, you can’t leave me here! Please, you can’t, I can’t, I—”</p><p>Her eyes feel heavy, her tongue turning to lead in her mouth. There’s a new sort of lightning coursing through her veins.</p><p>The Firelord turns to leave, the door clicks shut as his robes swish behind him. </p><p>She could’ve sworn she heard a muffled sob from the other side of the door before the world fades to black. </p><p>She won’t remember this when she wakes.</p><p>~~~</p><p>She’s not sure when the Firelord decides to continue the primitive tradition of employing a palace fool.</p><p>She’s not sure why, every few days, the fool deems it suitable to visit her in her chambers.</p><p>It’s getting ridiculous. Not to mention tiresome.</p><p>“I won’t speak to you,” she said firmly. “I shan’t engage with <em> traitors </em> like you. You’ve shamed our nation.”</p><p>“As a general, perhaps you are right.”</p><p>“You’re nothing but a foolish old man!”</p><p>The fool in question smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. </p><p>“You remind me of a boy I once knew.”</p><p>“Did he hate you too?”</p><p>The fool has the gall — the <em> audacity </em> — to laugh. “I daresay he did.”</p><p>She’d fold her arms in triumph if she weren’t restrained. </p><p>“He hated the world. He hated me. He was so angry. So full of hate and rage. And pain like I’d never seen before. A pain I hoped I’d never see again.</p><p>“He was lonely, too.”</p><p>“I’m not lonely!” She hissed. “I’m the Firelord! If I’m alone, it’s because I’m above the rest of you peasants and heathens!”</p><p>“Forgive me, Princess. I only meant that this boy was lonely in addition to being spiteful and bitter and angry. I did not mean to imply that you were as well.”</p><p>She sniffed disdainfully. Damn the fool, that made sense. </p><p>“Noted. Proceed.”</p><p>“This boy was given an impossible quest. To find something.”</p><p>“What was he looking for?”</p><p>“Honor restored.” The old man paused, looking away. “And along the way, he lost himself.”</p><p>“Then he’s a fool, just like you.”</p><p>“Perhaps he is,” the fool said quietly. “Perhaps I’m but a foolish old man, and he a foolish young boy. But tell me, Princess: who’s to say what makes a fool?”</p><p>“You disgust me,” she snarls. “You’re nothing more than a treasonous, witless, doddering old man with no better passtime than to bother me! What do you know?”</p><p>The man doesn’t react. Doesn’t even look at her. “Would you like a cup of tea?” </p><p>“Tea?” She scoffs, momentarily distracted. “Whatever for?”</p><p>“For no reason and every reason,” he says, infuriatingly calm. “You pour a little bit of your soul out with each cup of tea,” he says simply. “That’s why it’s warm. Your spirit fills the cup to the brim. That’s why it’s such great joy to share a cup of tea. You’re sharing a piece of yourself. Your spirit. “</p><p>“Pathetic.”</p><p>“Perhaps,” he surmised.</p><p>(<em>Perhaps </em> was the old fool’s catchphrase. </p><p>She’d say something particularly scathing, certain that she’d gotten him this time.</p><p> <em> Perhaps, </em> he’d muse. </p><p>It infuriated her. )</p><p>“I do believe a cup of tea often succeeds where words fail. In that do we find solace. Peace. Healing.”</p><p>“You think a couple of boiled leaves will fix me?”</p><p>He smiled. “Oh, no, Princess. Only you have that power.”</p><p>He leaves her with a hot mug of jasmine tea and thoughts racing like lightning through her mind.</p><p>~~~</p><p>“Mother?” </p><p>A voice was calling. She couldn’t place who it belonged to. </p><p>“Mother,” it called again.</p><p>“<em>Mother,</em></p><p>
  <em>           mother, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>                        mother?” </em>
</p><p>“Mama?” it whispered. “Mama, where are you going?”</p><p>“Away,” the wind whispered. “Far, far away, my sweet girl.”</p><p>“When will you come home again?”</p><p>“I won’t,” the voice said, tinged with loathing. “You have disgraced our nation. She has done treasonous things, terrible, horrible, <em> shameful </em> things.”</p><p>“What did she do?” Zuko asked. Azula wants to kick him for asking something so stupid. </p><p>Father’s face hardens into a carefully crafted mask.</p><p>Azula knows that mask. </p><p>She wears it too. More than she wears her own face.</p><p>She sees the lady in the mirror all the time. </p><p>She wakes before dawn, washes and dries, and sits at the vanity to prepare for the day. </p><p>
  <em> Who are you hiding from? </em>
</p><p>Lines her eyes with dark Charcoal. </p><p>
  <em> Beautiful, beautiful girl. My perfect darling. </em>
</p><p>Rouges her cheeks. She thinks of Zuko’s scar.</p><p><em> You’re the lucky one, </em> the woman chides. <em> You know your place. </em></p><p> Inspects her features.</p><p>
  <em> You knew your place. You thought you knew. You don’t know you don’t know </em>
</p><p>She wipes off the paint and starts again.</p><p><em> Foolish girl, </em> the woman teases. <em> You can’t fool me. </em></p><p>She can see a thick red scar marring the side of her face. She blinks, gripping the charcoal, and it’s gone again. She drops the brush in favor of tying up her hair.</p><p><em> Not a hair out of place, </em> the lady says. <em> Not one hair.  </em></p><p>Combs through her wet locks, drying them and piling them into an updo so tight it pinches her neck and temple. </p><p>
  <em> Who are you, really? </em>
</p><p>She pins back her uneven bangs. As best she can that is, since they stole all her hairpins and combs...</p><p><em> You’re not real, </em> she tells the lady. <em> I don’t answer to you. </em></p><p><em> You’re nothing more than a lie yourself, </em>comes the reply.</p><p>She paints her cheeks.</p><p>
  <em> Looking like the innocent flower… </em>
</p><p>She wipes her eyes, furiously. Fixes her lashes.</p><p>
  <em> But what lurks beneath?  </em>
</p><p>Lines her eyes with charcoal. </p><p>
  <em> What a pretty mask, my dear. Such a lovely portrait. </em>
</p><p>Runs a thick coat of red over her trembling lip.</p><p>
  <em> My perfect porcelain doll. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You can’t hide. </em>
</p><p>She wipes off the paint and starts again.</p><p>~~~</p><p> </p>
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